


As It All Goes to Hell in a Handbasket

by LordGrimwing



Series: No Home Stories [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Espionage, Prisoners, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordGrimwing/pseuds/LordGrimwing
Summary: Red Alert and Wheeljack use to work together as saboteurs. Red Alert took down security systems, and Wheeljack made the place fall.Then they got caught.From a prompt on the bunny farm.





	1. Don't Pass Go

It had been a combination of things, really, that lead to their capture: faulty intel, lack of equipment, time. But that all really wasn’t important now. Funny, what matters once you’ve been caught trying to blow up an enemy base.

“Slag. Oh, slag.” Red Alert kept repeating to himself, passing back and forth along the back of the cell he and Wheeljack were caged in.

The demolitionist looked away from inspecting his cuffs, annoyed by his companions swearing. “Do you mind?” He almost snapped. 

“I can’t help it. We’ve slagging been caught by the ‘con! We’re going to fragging die! How are you so calm?!” He brought his bound servos up to his face, sensory horns flashing red.

Wheeljack almost rolled his optics. “Firstly, dying’s not really the worst thing that could happen. Besides that, do you really think Autobot Command is just going to leave us here? I’m one of the best Spec. Ops. agents they’ve got, and you rather useful with security systems.They’re totally going to get us out.” Maybe… Hopefully… If they got lucky. No need to tell the kid that though. “Relax. Sit back. Jazz’ll have us sprung in no time. You mark my words.”

“Okay. okay.” Red Alert sank to the floor next to Wheeljack. “I’m calm, relaxed. Of course Jazz won’t let anything happen to us. Nothing to worry about.” The greenish glow to his horns--which were normally white--made his words hallow. 

They sat in silence, each trying to not think about what their captors would do to them, for close to an hour. Then…  

“Did you hear that?” The white and red agent’s helm jerked up at the sound.

“Someone’s coming.” Wheeljack scrambled to stand, not wanting to show any weakness when the ‘cons finally entered the room. Red Alert was quick to follow.

“Don’t say anything.” The older mech instructed. His compatriot nodded mutely, horns flash blue. 

The heavy doors to the holding cells twisted open, allowing entrance for five darkly painted mechs. The tallest, the leader too if his posture had anything to do with it, stepped right up to the energy bars. Mere inches away from Wheeljake’s glaring gaze. He grinned. “Tell me Autobot, how does it feel to finally be the one held behind bars? Not used to this view are you?”

Wheeljack didn’t even grace him with an answer.

Snarling, the commander continued. “I’m sure you’re both wondering why I had you kept alive.” He leaned closer helm ridge almost touching the bars. “I’m going to get every bit of Autobot intel out of you two. And when I’m done, you’re going to wish you had died.” With a twirl, the dark green mech turned, signaling to the four others as he strode by. Upon reaching the door, he turned to face them again. Watching as his subordinates disengaged the electrical bars and grabbed the struggling Autobots.

“Oh,” he added. “One last thing. I know you ‘bot’s are all about protecting other and nonsense like that, so it’s only fair I tell you: the less you tell us, the more the other suffers.” The doors twisted shut on his words.

“Time’s a wasting.” One of the brawny mechs holding Wheeljack laughed. “Don’t worry,” the two ‘bots were dragged off in opposite directions, “you’ll still be able to see most of each other when the days through.”   

The demolition expert gulped. He really wished Jazz was at HQ right about now, coordinating their rescue. Too bad he was still working that undercover mission.

~~~

“I’m going to ask you one more time nicely. Is your division commander--Jazz--on an assignment?” 

Wheeljack worked the fresh energon to the front of his mouth, courtesy of newly cracked denta, then spat into his interrogator's faceplate. A heavy fist connected squarely with his jaw. His head snapped back, whacking solidly against the back of the chair he was bound to.

“Need I remind you,” the purple mech hissed, wiping energon from his optics, “that your stoicism is only going to make this day much more painful for the other Autobot?” Without warning, Wheeljack’s helm was yanked back until he was staring over the back of the chair, neck tubing stretched so taut he could hardly vent. The interrogator walked around until he stood in front of the vid screen Wheeljack could now see. “Let’s check on him and see how things are progressing.” 

With a crackle, the screen came to life, filled with a view of another questioning cell. Red Alert lay strapped down on a table, limbs jerking spasmodically, his whole head cover in some gray cloth. Two mechs stood on either side of him, one seemed to be holding his jaw open, while the other pored a cube of liquid over the covered face. Wheeljack flitched, wanting to close his optics. He didn’t want to see the younger saboteur punished because of him, but he’d made a promise as a spec ops agent to never say a thing.

“Is there anything you want to tell us now?” The interrogator asked, red optics fixed on the prisoner’s blue.

Wheeljack remained silent. Silence never hurt so much in his life.

“No? Well then,” he reached to turn off the monitor, though not before they saw the one holding the prisoner's jaw slam his fist against Red Alert’s sternum. The screen went dark. “It’s such a pity too.” He walked around to Wheeljack’s front. The other interrogator released the bound mech’s head, letting him return to looking forward. “He’s being ever so helpful.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank SilverScrap for this

Wheeljack sat slouched against the back of the cell, where a solid wall, not burning bars, kept him from escaping. His right optic had gone out: the light filament snapped after a particularly hard slap to the helm. The crack in his denta had grown to a gap, and he kept having to spit out the energon that slowly filled his mouth. He was also fairly sure his equilibrium chip had been damaged, ‘cause every time he moves more than a few inches the world started to tumble around.

Ped steps.

The clang of peds and scratch of dragging metal pulled Wheeljack’s attention away from himself. The door to the cells slid open and two dark purple mechs marched in, pulling the limp form of Red Alert between them. Behind them came the commander.

“I do hope your day went as smoothly as mine, Autobot.” The commander sneered, one green hand idly tracing his faction’s insignia. “Perhaps tomorrow your friend can have a good day too.” 

Wheeljack barely caught Red Alert’s slack frame when the guards threw him back into the cell. The younger mech was in terrible shape: large chunks of plating had been forcibly removed, the wires underneath pulled out of their casings. The saboteur’s helm horns were shattered and the emotive wires held within clipped. There was more but Wheeljack couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He himself had received mostly dents and a couple dislocated digits. Frankly, he went through much worse while training under Jazz. 

Wheeljack pulled Red Alert close, trying to keep his damaged compatriots in as comfortable a position as possible. A part of him didn’t want to though. A part of the demolitions expert knew that the only reason he’d gone this far with only light damage was that the Autobot in his lap couldn’t keep his vocalizers off. Wheeljack didn’t want the price of his wholeness to be Autobot secrets.

“Just stop talking.” He begged his offline companion. “The cause is more important than either of us. Just stop talking.” No bot heard him.

~~~

“Wheeljack . . . Jackie?” 

The saboteur cracked open an optic, the interrogations, and their compiling damage rendered most of his face inert. Wheeljack looked down at Red Alert to see what broken bot wanted. His companion was still in recharge mode. The pair spent a lot of time in that mode, conserving the little energy they had.

“Wheeljack.”

The cell’s bars fizzled and faded away. Wheeljack shut his optic, he didn’t want to see their torturers again. The interrogations ended days ago when Red Alert stopped giving coherent answers, now it was just frustrated Decepticons venting.

“Primus. Are they even alive?”

A pair of large hands pulled Wheeljack to his peds and when he couldn’t stay upright, they lifted him like a youngling.

“Jackie opened his optic a moment ago.” 

Their tormentors weren’t normally this talkative.

“Alright, let’s get out of here bots. Sideswipe, the moment we’re clear of the disruptor, call into HQ and get Ratchet ready.”

~~~

“Any news?” Jazz asked, stepping into Ratchet’s medbay.

“Jazz,” the tired medic grumbled. “I’m under orders from Prowl to send him updates every orn. Updates I am sure he shares with you.”

A quiet sense of hurt drifted through Jazz’s EM field. While he hadn’t given Wheeljack and Red Alert the assignment that led to their capture, he was the one who failed to set up a clear retrieval plan for his bots before setting out on his own mission. Jazz’s oversight and subsequent delay in investigating the pair’s disappearance led to weeks of torture.

“Prowl and I are looking for different things.” The Autobots’ head of tactics need to know how much the captured saboteurs had told, what plans he had to change, what cities must be refortified. Prowl long ago stopped caring about the bots he gave orders to. 

Ratchet set down his charts. “Physically, they're fine.” The doctor grumbled. “Wheeljack’s even onlined a few times. I think he understands he’s safe now.”

“But?” Jazz pushed. There was always a but. “Mentally?”

Ratchet walked around his desk. Directing Jazz over to a monitor, he pulled up his patients’ vital readings. “But.”

“How?” Jazz stared at the processor activity charts. Although both now in a medically induced stasis, Wheeljack and Red Alert’s mental activity fluctuated wildly. 

“Stress. Physical damage.” Ratchet shut down the monitor. “Their processors are in overdrive--the parts still functioning anyway.”

“Can we do anything?” Jazz asked, sinking into the chair facing Ratchet’s desk.

“Give them time.” The medic resumed his seat. “I’ll keep them under for a bit longer, see if the readings will stabilize a little. Smokescreen may be able to help, provided they can communicate.”

Jazz looked over at the still frames of his subordinates.

“Suffice it to say Jazz, they’re never going to do another mission.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone want to see more of this? Or have other prompts they want field?


End file.
